by Jamie Beck
I’ve fond memories of Malibu thanks to my childhood visits with my dad’s sister. The beach and mountains had always provided endless adventure. And although my mom called her kooky, I thought Aunt Sara’s artistic spirit and unconventional friends were warm and welcoming.
She was so different from Dad, sometimes I questioned whether she was adopted. At times, I’d secretly wished to go live with her and be free to explore the world. Naturally, my mother could barely conceal her relief when Aunt Sara moved to Brazil ten years ago with some musician. Now she’s living off the grid, so our visits are restricted to infrequent holiday FaceTime chats and e-mails.
Malibu won’t be the same without her, but the distance should enable me to contemplate my future with minimal interference from my past.
Rob’s deception rocked me, but it also allows me to reconsider the direction of my life. I only wish I didn’t feel like I’ve jumped from a plane without a parachute.
My cell phone rings, interrupting my thoughts and Rihanna’s raunchy song.
“Hello?”
“Are you there yet?” Jill asks.
“No. Navigation says thirty more minutes.” I grin, eager to reach my destination. “Of course, in this traffic, who knows?”
“I still don’t get why you had to leave New York to figure out whether or not to forgive Rob.”
“The pitying stares. The daily pressure from my mother.” I roll my eyes even though no one can see them. “I had to take drastic action.”
“Drastic is right.” Jill heaves an irritated, long sigh. “Seriously, is Rob’s one-time fling worth blowing up your whole life?”
“His ‘fling’ called him at work.” I feel the heat rush to my cheeks. “If she could find him there, she’s probably not the random one-timer he claims.”
“But he confessed before the wedding. Doesn’t that count?”
“Jill, he confessed to safeguard my health, not because of a crisis of conscience.” It’s just so humiliating, and I’m still awaiting the damn test results. “I can’t commit to a man who casually deceived me.”
Why start a marriage as an insecure wife, incessantly worrying? I won’t become one of those women who checks her husband’s pockets and e-mails, who spends endless hours and dollars on my appearance in order to compete with younger women, or who turns a blind eye to duplicity out of fear of loneliness.
“I’m sorry. I know this sucks for you.” Jill’s tone softens. “Have you canceled all the wedding plans?”
“Rob’s taking care of some of it with my mom’s help. He owed it to me after all I did to plan everything.” My heart pinches. “What a waste of time and money.”
The sudden silence makes me question whether the call dropped, but then Jill speaks.
“Maybe this break is a good idea, actually. You’ve always killed yourself trying to please everyone. You deserve some ‘me’ time.”
“Thanks, Jill.” I smile, happy for the crumb of understanding. “Hey, I’ve got to pay attention to my navigation because I’m getting closer. Talk later?”
“Bye!”
The sky-blue home’s tucked into a nest of palm trees and flowering shrubs. I spy the broker sitting in her car talking on her phone. As I approach her car, I notice her stretched skin and unexpressive forehead. She’s spent beaucoup bucks fighting her forties. Apparently, some things are identical on both coasts.
After introductions, a quick tour, and instructions about the alarm system, appliances, and so on, she hands me the keys and a bottle of champagne and then leaves me alone.
An hour later, my emptied suitcases and boxes are stowed in the closet. I scatter a few personal items and photographs throughout the home. Strolling through each room, I hug myself.
The house is eighteen hundred square feet of airy perfection. Its white stucco living and dining rooms, each with pitched beamed ceilings, open to a nice-sized deck, decorated simply with lounge chairs and terra-cotta potted plants. From there is a gorgeous view of the ocean and nearby pier. Upstairs, a corner fireplace and glass sliders adorn the master bedroom, which opens to a private deck with the same view as the one below.
Everything about this house is a startling contrast to any place I’ve ever lived. Standing on the balcony outside my new bedroom—a bedroom I’ll be sharing with no one—I observe the activity on the beach. Unlike New England shores, it’s not swarming with people. The blazing late-afternoon sun slowly lowers toward the glimmering horizon. My first West Coast sunset in years. Too bad I’ll be watching it alone.
Although it’s Sunday, I’d bet Rob’s working. Is he thinking of me? Does his stomach churn, like mine, at the recognition of what we’ve lost? Will he sit alone tonight, or will he drown his sorrows in a bottle or another woman’s bed?
Disgusted by my speculation, I distract myself by going inside. Opening my laptop on the dining room table, I click through my e-mails. Wedding vendor notices, spam, another message from Rob. Nothing I want to deal with right now. I shut down the computer and collapse onto the comfy sofa, procrastinating making the inevitable call to my mother.
Determined to wear my big-girl pants, I finally pick up the phone and make the call.
“Hello, Lindsey.”
“Hi, Mom. Thought you’d want to know I’m safe and sound.” I tug on the ends of my hair. “The place is just like the online photos. You’d adore it.”
“Glad the trust fund is going to such valuable use.”
Her sarcastic remark hits the bull’s-eye. My chest heaves. Over the years we’ve rarely argued, and I’ve never been one for combat.
“If you and Dad didn’t want me to have the money, then why’d you bother giving it to me in the first place?” My forehead wrinkles upon hearing my own ungrateful, selfish retort. I appreciate how lucky I am to have been handed a safety net.
“Don’t think we don’t regret it now.” Her brittle voice grates my eardrums. “You’re supposed to be smarter and stronger than this, Lindsey.”
“It is smart and strong to reconsider my options rather than rush to marry a man who’s proven himself a liar.” Her silence fuels slight elation at possibly having made my point, until I hear her sigh.
“You’ll never find a relationship without bumps—serious bumps. Life’s hard. Marriage takes work, compromise, and forgiveness.” She softens her voice. “Rob made a terrible mistake, but he’s apologized. You’ve sunk three years into that relationship. Together you have everything necessary to build a beautiful life together. I doubt you’ll find a man more suitable than him.”
Flabbergasted, I spit out, “Really? I can’t do better than a cheater?” My eye twitches, so I take a deep breath. My mom doesn’t realize this hiatus is about more than Rob, but if I tell her how I feel, she’ll only be insulted and angrier. “I don’t want to fight, Mom. Please stop insulting me, okay?”
Silence.
Her heavy-handed coercion angers the hell out of me. It also makes me question whether Dad broke her trust, too, and how, but I don’t have the nerve to ask.
They’d always seemed normal, like other parents in our neighborhood. Dad worked long hours, traveled extensively, and left Mom to manage all things involving the house, the social calendar, and me. I’d never witnessed them argue. In fact, neither ever displayed much of any kind of emotion. Oddly, both were physically affectionate toward me and, until now, had been my biggest cheerleaders.
“Mom?”
“Fine, Lindsey.” Her tense voice quiets again.
“Well, I’ll call you tomorrow. Maybe then we can talk about the future instead of the past.” I wait, hoping for one encouraging word before hanging up.
“I know you think I’m being unreasonable. Your father and I love you and want what’s best for you. I know you’re hurt, but you’re being impetuous. Choices made from emotion, rather than reasoned thought, aren’t usually the best.”
“Good night, Mom.” I end the call battered because, in truth, I can’t refute her final point.
Rob
and I had played out a pattern of general ease, friendship, and respect, similar to that of my parents. We didn’t argue in front of others, break up and make up in equal measure, or engage in displays of public affection. I’d assumed it meant we were perfectly matched, but maybe the lack of emotion indicated a lack of deep passion. Is that why Rob strayed? Am I too predictable?
I pour myself a glass of champagne and wander out to the deck. Sinking into a lounge chair, I recline and consider a new beginning. Tiny, fruity bubbles tickle my nose, but even the postcard-worthy orange-and-pink sky can’t lift my mood to match its vibrancy.
How is it possible to have been engaged, begun a career, and be nearly twenty-six, all without knowing who I am or what I want from my life? It’s unacceptable. Pathetic even. I’ve obviously been more concerned with winning approval than pursuing my own desires.
And unlike Aunt Sara, my parents conditioned me to replace dreams with decisions based on fear. I miss being easily inspired and believing anything’s possible. I want that back. That’s why I came, and I’m not going home until I find it.
CHAPTER FOUR
June 3, 2013
Levi
Being alone hasn’t helped me sleep any better than the comfort of being curled up next to a soft, warm body did this week. My room is still dark when I roll out of bed to go outside to get my morning paper. It’s quiet; only a few cars driving along the Pacific Coast Highway. Then again, it’s not even six o’clock in the morning. When I bend over to get the Journal, I notice a red BMW 6 Series convertible parked next door. Nice wheels. But I’m bummed someone finally rented that house.
That vacant property had afforded me extra privacy. I love this beach, but the houses are almost flush to one another. The downside of all the windows offering ocean views is seeing bits and pieces of your neighbor’s activities each day. At least my house is more elevated, making it harder for them to see me than for me to see them.
I hope my new neighbor likes his or her privacy as much as I enjoy mine.
I’ve spent my adult life relaxed and comfortable in my solitude—at least I did up until last week. But lately images and memories of my pop are throwing me off my game. Perhaps the brutal nature of his death’s haunting me.
Not that I’m surprised by the turn of events. You can’t play with people’s lives and not expect blowback. Given enough time, Pop was sure to cross the wrong person. He’d been convinced he’d be a little smarter and faster than the next guy. But you don’t have to be a statistics guru to know no one indefinitely outsmarts everyone.
Yet, the norm of a grifter’s life—the rush of the unknown, the thrill of a chase, and the excitement of an against-all-odds victory—has an addictive quality. My Vegas trips are becoming more frequent to satisfy my appetite for adventure. Unlike my pop’s games, though, the only person harmed by my ill-advised habit is myself. With my expertise, that doesn’t happen too often, however.
Queasiness unfurls when I consider the idea of Pop looking down the barrel of a gun knowing he was gonna die. Did he think of me? And now I’m alone . . . really alone. I cut him out of my life, but the finality of never being able to talk to him again suffocates me. If ever the turn of phrase “deafening silence” applied to my life, this is certainly the occasion.
My throat tightens as I digest the circumstances of his death without distractions. If he hadn’t carried my name and address in his wallet, how long might he have remained unclaimed? Will anyone shed a tear over his demise? Will that be me one day, dying alone and, for all intents and purposes, leaving no one and nothing behind? Do I care? Maybe I do and that’s why I can’t sleep anymore.
Ah, to hell with this pity party. I’ve got shit to do. Life to live.
I set up shop on my deck to browse the Journal. An hour later, I refill my coffee and go stand at the railing to peek at the morning activity on the beach. I stretch my torso, holding my hands clasped behind my head. It’s still early, just before seven. Not much happening, so it’s easy to spot the girl on the beach not far from my house.
At first she’s facing the ocean. Her almond-brown ponytail and lean, athletic legs make me eager for her to spin around and give me a full view. When she finally turns sideways, I notice her cheeks are stained pink. She’s got a strong jawline and high cheekbones. Unlike the Barbie from yesterday, and the many other underfed, plastic-surgery guinea pigs in LA, this girl’s naturally pretty.
When she approaches my house, I scowl. Why’s she coming my way? Does she know me? Something about her is vaguely familiar, but I can’t place her. One might write it off as “one of those faces,” but she’s memorable, and I’m good with faces. Perhaps I’ve seen her in the local markets or bars. Must be it.
When I realize she’s actually heading toward the house next door, I’m relieved and slightly intrigued. Leaning my forearms against the railing, I watch her start up the steps to her own deck. A pleasant hum reverberates through me, so I indulge the feeling.
She must sense my stare, because she glances up, causing me to freeze in the spotlight of her owlish, golden-brown eyes. After regaining my composure, I nod.
“Howdy, neighbor. Nice mornin’ for a run.”
She halts for a second, blinking almost as if she’s seen a ghost. Recovering quickly, she tips her chin and offers a thin smile before continuing inside. My brow lowers at the slight.
Frickin’ ice princess. Can’t even stop and say good morning to a new neighbor? Does she think I’m coming on to her? She doesn’t have to worry about that from me. I’ve established rules, and neighbors make for bad bedfellows. If she’s frigid, that’s fine with me. I’m not looking for friends. I’d best be getting back to my work anyway.
Lindsey
Oh. My. God. Is he really my neighbor? He’s more mature, but still impossibly gorgeous—those piercing eyes and that gritty accent. I’d wasted a week obsessively watching him work while plotting to win his attention.
Does he remember me? Doubtful. He’s probably played out dozens of similar scenes, at dozens of resorts, with dozens of women. I meant less than nothing to him, but his orchestrated rejection left a lasting impact on my young heart.
It figures he caught me after my run, when I’m sweaty and disgusting. I already stick out here among the Amazon blondes. Still acting like a coward, too, ducking away from him as quickly as possible.
What were the odds I’d ever see him again, let alone end up his neighbor? A zillion to one! I should go purchase a lottery ticket, selecting the numbers of today’s date and my new address.
Unbelievable. I finally free myself from my gilded cage in New York only to end up next door to him. How will I enjoy this neighborhood if I’m always checking over my shoulder for his sneer? Worse, what if he remembers me? Won’t he have a good laugh?
I predicted he’d end up poor and alone. Instead, I’m alone, depressed, and living on my parents’ generosity. Shame pulses through me. Maybe a long shower will wash away my searing discomfort.
No such luck. My thoughts return to him. How’d he end up affording to live in Malibu? Did he actually go to school? More likely he robbed a bank or is house-sitting for someone. Oh, one can hope he’s just here temporarily.
Remembering our ancient conversation brings into sharp focus the dismal shape of my life. I’ve been parroting my parents’ opinions and beliefs as my own for so long, I’m hard-pressed to separate them from my own.
How haughty and condescending I was to lecture him, to purport to know anything about life. Now, years later, we end up at the same place despite vastly different paths and plans. For all I know, he’s better off than me.
He’s probably acquired a purpose. Maybe he even opted for a few of those anchors he’d sworn off. An unexpected curiosity seizes me as I envision his equally beautiful girlfriend—or wife! Wife.
I could be someone’s wife. My body slumps in response to visualizing Rob. Much as I hate to admit it, I miss him, or at least I miss the idea of us. I steady my bouncing knees. Wha
t am I doing here? What’s this hiatus going to accomplish? Were my parents right about my hasty decision?
Instinctively, I reach for my phone to call Jill. She’ll be awake now and walking to work.
“What’s up?” she answers.
“You will not believe it!” I hold my forehead in my palm.
“What?”
“Remember when I went to Sanibel for Christmas break our senior year?”
“Yes,” she answers.
“Remember the bartender I told you about and how he treated me?” Levi.
“Oh yeah, the super-hot one who seduced then rejected you?” She giggles.
“Not funny, by the way.” I sniff.
“Come on. Kinda funny now, right?”
“Not really, Jill, considering he lives next door to my rental!”
“No way!”
“Yes way,” I reply sullenly. “Can you believe it?”
“That’s incredible. How’d you recognize him?”
“Oh, his mesmerizing, evil image is forever etched in my mind. I’m pretty sure it’s him.” Privately, I surmise his face is etched in the memories of many women, for many different reasons.
“Did he recognize you?”
“I doubt it. We didn’t talk. He called hello from his porch when I returned from my morning run. I responded by bolting into my house.” Her laughter on the other end of the line makes my mouth twitch.
“Sorry. That sucks. But he probably won’t remember you, so act normal. You can do that, right? Act normal?”
Right? Her light, mocking tone coaxes a fleeting smile from me. Then heaviness settles back into my chest. “Jill, what am I even doing here?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, why did I think coming back to Malibu would solve my problems? What am I doing?”
“Running away.”
“I’m serious.”
“Me too.”
“Is that what everyone thinks? I couldn’t handle the breakup, so I ran away to hide?” Jill’s hesitation gives me my answer.
“Who cares? Do whatever it takes to be happy.”